ii4 BY MEADOW AND STREAM. 



that dear old bridge. A pretty maiden stood there ; 

 she leaned against the wooden rail, and watched me 

 with a laughing eye. Clad all in white was she, a 

 light pink sash encircled her waist, a moss rose 

 nestled in her bosom, and in one hand she held a 

 basket of wild flowers. She wore a saucy sailor's hat, 

 and her bonny brown hair flowed from beneath it in 

 wavy ringlets over her shoulders. It was, I assure 

 you, a pretty picture. 



" Her looks as clear 

 As morning roses freshly wash'd with dew." 



We had met before, in truth we were old friends, 

 and probably our meeting was not altogether an "un- 

 designed coincidence." She clapped her hands, and 

 her bright brown eyes sparkled with delight as she 

 came down to examine my catch ; but when she saw 

 me forcing the hook from the poor trout's mouth, and 

 striking his head on the butt of my rod, she turned 

 away with a shudder, and with a tear in her eye, and 

 trembling lip, she cried, " How can you be so cruel ? " 



I soothed her with the most specious reasons I 

 could think of, for on this subject I am not quite 

 orthodox. I remember reading of an argument of 

 two hours* duration on this question of cruelty be- 

 tween the Rev. John Brown (father of the author of 

 " Rab and his Friends,") and his attached friend the 

 Rev. Dr. Ward law (an ardent fisherman). At last 

 the doctor was driven to exclaim, "Well! I cannot 

 answer you, but fish I must and shall!" That is, 

 perhaps, the best argument that can be adduced, and 

 is certainly decisive if not conclusive. 



